Letters to the Dead
by bandnerd21
Summary: A strange cabbie, a mysterious cipher, and a dead detective. And John says nothing happens in his life!  Not slash, unless you're wearing those glasses. T for minor language
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, this is me dealing with my Reichenbach feels (if you need someone to commiserate on Moffat's evilness, you can PM me, just ask sarahhaley. I love commiserating!) and post-story sadness (because after finishing my Who story, there was a gaping hole in my heart that I hadn't known it occupied.). So yes, I jumped on the bandwagon of post-Reichenbach fics, but I think mine is slightly different than the average one. Please enjoy, and don't be afraid to R&R!

Disclaimer: I don't own *sniffles*

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><p>John Watson was numb. He woke up in 221B with a sick feeling in his stomach. It had been exactly a week since they had buried Sherlock. He ambled out of his bedroom, breathing in the lingering scent of chemicals—particularly of the explosive variety—body parts lying around the flat that John still hasn't found, and some fancy cologne that Sherlock had been mixing in with his experiments for some odd reason before he... Well, John couldn't think about that. All he could think about was that everything about the flat still reminded him of Sherlock. His best friend… He choked up over his kettle as he set it on the stove to boil. He limped to the chair, giving the sofa—Sherlock's favorite place in their flat—a wide berth. He opened the paper, ignoring the smattering of obituaries written by people who claimed to have known the great detective best. If he looked at another one, he might just explode. The kettle whistled, and John pushed himself out of the chair to pour a cuppa. He had to stop himself from pouring a second for a Sherlock who would never drink it. He shrugged off Mrs. Hudson's questions about how he was feeling, grabbed the cane he had to dig out of the bins, and hailed a cab. First, to the florist for new flowers for Sherlock's grave. He smiled a little at what Sherlock would say to such an action.<p>

"Why would someone put flowers on someone's grave? The person receiving the flowers is dead," he'd ask, one of the few times a look of confusion would cross his face.

"Think for a moment, Sherlock," John would prompt patiently, shaking his head ever so slightly.

"Sentiment," the great detective would guess.

"Sentiment," John would affirm, and Sherlock would go on doing whatever he had been doing.

The cabbie looked back at John, his eyes widening in recognition.

"You're that Watson bloke, aren't you?"

John clenched his fists and nodded stiffly. "Yes, I am." He knew what was coming; the staring, trying to assure him that Sherlock was the fake everyone had thought he was. It seemed, sometimes, that John was the only one who knew the truth. The cabbie grinned sadly.

"That Sherlock, he was summin' else, eh?"

"You… could say that… yeah."

The cabbie nodded. "I read your blog sometimes. That man, 'e was definitely not a fraud. I may not be the smartest man in th' world, but I do know 'onesty. And Holmes was an 'onest man."

John nodded, tears coming into his eyes without his permission. "Thank you." They pulled up to the florist. "Would you mind waiting here? Won't be a minute."

The cabbie nodded and turned around. "Buy one for me, will ye? 'e was a good man, an' I want 'im to know I believe in 'im. Would you buy a xeranthemum?" He pressed a five pound note into John's hand.

John looked at him suspiciously for his very specific flower request, but said nothing, smiled, and wandered into the florist.

He bought a bouquet of irises, zinnias, cyclamens, and purple hyacinths, handing over 40 pounds. He traded the five pound note for a xeranthemum and went back to the cab.

"How's this?" He held the flower up for the cabbie's inspection.

The man smiled and tied a note around the flower's stem near its head. "Flowers are interestin', always a different meaning for each flower. This one means immortality. Seems fittin' for your friend. No one'll be forgetting 'im any time soon.

'Ere's your stop. Be seein' you, Doctor Watson." The cabbie pulled over to the curb across the street from the graveyard, waving away John's hand full of money.

"Thanks, uhm, uh—"

"Peter Jones, Doctor Watson."

"Thanks, then, Peter." John smiled and stepped out of the cab, sorely tempted to read what Peter Jones had written on his strange flower request for Sherlock.

With every step he took, his feet seemed to grow heavier. The trek to Sherlock's grave filled him with dread, yet he knew he would never be able to not visit the cold black slab of marble that his best friend rested beneath. He let a single tear drip down his face and shook his head, a small smile on his face for a flash; Sherlock would be incredibly confused as to why John was crying. Wiping his eyes, he set his bouquet on the ground and stared at the strange flower the cabbie had asked him to buy and attached the note to. He fought the urge to open the card with the note and lost. But he was at a loss as to what it said.

R I Z Z L X J K E C P L H O P  
>Y J W P F G G Q Z Q O R B Z X<br>N E M G L L O D W Z Q T L Y G  
>M X X T B E Y K D J Y Z H D L<br>D R S W X O J G K M J J D P D  
>M O J O F Q V E F L N C J D H<br>N F Z Z D K G F E W T N X V Z  
>Y L L J Z V V T V D C W J W E<br>H H D G P Z W J H K P L F R C  
>Y X S Y N L T C J D B O K G G<br>X F D U P F G T B S E A J P Q  
>K D D L Q P S G J B R D Q C N<br>W M B F S I R S G J U R Q M P  
>W W O A V R S W L A G W F H H<br>Z B G Z M L S Z X F A P O E D

He decided not to pretend he understood what Peter had written and laid the flower on the grave next to his bouquet. He stood there for a moment, shoulders shaking silently, mouthing a silent prayer he couldn't bear to allow into the air.

"_Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead. Come back for me, Sherlock, I'm begging you._"

Little did he know there were two figures watching him, one from a cab, and the other in the darkness of the trees lining the graveyard similar to the last week. Except this time, the figure was hidden behind trees closer to the grave that John was heading to; he had to see his best friend's face again, even if it was contorted by sadness.

Eventually, he raised his head from its bowed position and glared directly at the gold lettering of Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock, I don't know what to do. I feel like a shell, and I'm a shadow of myself at the surgery… Sarah can't even look me in the eye, now. You managed to drive away all of my girlfriends just so that I wouldn't leave you, and then you… You go and do this. You are a bloody bastard, and when you come back, you better have no doubt that I won't be avoiding your nose." A single tear slid down his cheek, but John made no move to stop it. He let the salty droplet of water trail down his face to his chin where it hung delicately for a moment before landing on the still-fresh earth over Sherlock's casket.

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><p>Peter Jones watched as John Watson left the cab, flower and message in hand. He shook his head at the poor bloke; he had no idea. Peter could only hope that Sherlock revealed himself to the world again soon. He didn't know how long they could last without him sweeping in and saving the day like the hero he told everyone he wasn't.<p>

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><p>Sherlock Holmes stood in the trees, not quite understanding why John was there. He had just been there the day before, and Mrs. Hudson had brought flowers. He imagined the conversation, asking John what was going on.<p>

"Why would someone put flowers on someone's grave? The person receiving the flowers is dead," he'd ask, one of the few times he would be confused.

"Think for a moment, Sherlock," John would prompt patiently, shaking his head ever so slightly, but still smiling, always tolerant of Sherlock's... misunderstanding of emotions.

"Sentiment," he would guess, knowing almost certainly that he was right.

"Sentiment," John would affirm, and his smile widening like he thought Sherlock was learning something new about humanity.

Sherlock grinned a bit. He could just hear John's voice in his head. It was so clear. John stopped at the grave, and Sherlock instinctively took a few steps farther into the shadows. John set the flowers on the fresh dirt and bowed his head, shoulders shaking, muttering something Sherlock could only guess at. It was driving him crazy, being unable to tell what John was saying and why. He could tell everything that John had done that day, but he couldn't ask why. He felt an ache in his chest and filed it away to be examined later; he put it under sentiment, an ever-growing file that Sherlock was almost afraid to look at.

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><p>AN: Yes, I put a cipher in there for you guys. And yes, I expect you to solve it. I'll give you three clues:

1. It's triple-encoded (yes, I'm mean. Deal with it; this'll be fun. Well, for me, at least!)

2. 2 of the ciphers used were 2 of the ciphers used for the secretmessages on Sherlock's website (the science of deduction)

3. the other one requires a code word that is fairly obvious and is a major part of this fandom.

Have fun! Whoever solves it first and PMs me/reviews with the answer will get a lifetime supply of virtual cookies and love!

Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

So, I seem to have made the cipher too difficult, so I've gotten rid of the Vigenere Square (the third cipher I used). It was with the code word "Sherlock." Also, one of the ciphers, a Caesar shift, is 7 to the right. I can't post the next chapter until at least two or three people have figured it out! Sorry!

Here's the edited cipher, still with the grid and Caesar shift:

ZBVIAJHAMVLUWAN  
>ORPLOVSOPYHNKOJ<br>LUUZHUDPUPYMHHV  
>YVNBUAHZPHOHAZU<br>SDQMFHFPZYHZLIZ  
>VDVMVYOAOAZAZLA<br>JOOLBAOYAFIZVLH  
>RHUYLTLBOZLLVUU<br>PAZPELUZPDLUUDA  
>OFLUWAFAZLUKTVS<br>VVLNLOVFZIMTFYF  
>WBTTJLBVVZHLJYW<br>LYZVABNBVVSHYFL  
>FLAYLZLSUPSUVPA<br>VKVLKBASTOPBMUL


	3. Please read and answer, silence is scary

Okay, guys, I feel really bad about this, but _**I cannot post the next chapter until someone tells me they figured out the cipher. **_It's imperative to the plot, but I want to give you guys a chance to solve it because _**I had faith in you. I believed that you could do it, and you're ALL letting me down right now. **_I want you guys to have some fun with this…

Well, now that you've been properly chastised, TELL ME THE ANSWER TO THE CIPHER I POSTED! I have the entire second chapter up here in my head, complete with the next bit of Moffat-worthy plot, but I CAN'T POST IT! And it's KILLING ME ON THE INSIDE!

So, please please please please please tell me!

-BandNerd21


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Ok, so someone FINALLY figured out the cipher I posted after 2 desperate author's notes begging you guys to solve it *glare* So, anonymous reviewer under the name of Kath. I love you. A lot. In a totally not creepy way ^.^

As for the rest of you... Since you seem to not want to play my little mind games (I guess I understand... You're probably all too busy), I'll post it in the next chapter under the Sherlock POV, and just decipher it for you. Enjoy the chappie! :D

Also, do not own... :'( I know, it saddens me greatly, too :P

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><p>Sherlock waited in the shadows until John had left the grave with a sigh. He scooped up the flower and opened the note on its stem, smirking as he read it. Triple encoded, Caesar shift 7 to the right, in a 15X15 grid, and a vigenere cipher with his first name as the code word. Too easy. His brain effortlessly decoded the cipher, chuckling as he did so. Mycroft did like to be… dramatic.<p>

Sherlock,  
>I hope you know what you're doing. John seems to be suffering more than you expected. Contact me the usual way when you get this. I trust you'll finish this soon. Moriarty's web, so I hear, has been falling fast. Send me an update soon. Mycroft has been worrying constantly.<br>Pete

He wrote back a quick response in the same format telling Mycroft to mind his own bloody business and that he's only been gone a week. It's not as if anyone minds. As for John, well, Mycroft must be mistaken about that.

3 days later:

John cursed as hot water from the kettle splashed onto his face; he was _not _expecting the phone to be ringing at 10:30 in the morning. Wiping his face down with a towel weighed down by cold water, he glanced at the caller ID. And dropped the towel. Would've dropped his teacup if he hadn't lost all of the water because of the bloody phone. He shook himself slightly and answered the phone.

"Detective Inspector, this is a… Well, to be honest, it's a bit of a surprise. What can I do for you?"

Greg Lestrade's voice crackled from the other end. "John, something's come up… We need your help."

"Greg, you know I'm not—I'm not him. I don't know how much I'll be able to help," John muttered into the phone feeling useless.

"No, you're not him, but you're the closest thing we have. And God help me, we need you." All John could remember was the Detective Inspector saying almost the exact same words to the great Consulting Detective on their first case together.

John nodded deliberately before realizing Greg couldn't see him. "I'll do my best. Where are you?"

Greg rattled off an address in Brentwood, about 15 minutes away from 221B.

"Give me twenty minutes."

He ran around the flat, feeling the emptiness that Sherlock used to fill by yelling orders at John, flinging his scarf around his neck, possibly knocking over the tea that would have just been made. Once outside—after yelling a quick 'goodbye' to Mrs. Hudson—he hailed a cab and hauled himself into the back cautiously. Always cautiously. Luckily, this cabbie looked to be okay. Mid-thirties, clean gold band on the ring finger of the left hand—newly married—kind eyes (although Sherlock would never place stock in the kindness of someone's eyes), and a quick smile—very trusting. If he was walking, John could tell he would have a 'spring in his step.'

The cabbie smiled at him. "You're John Watson, aren't you?"

John's mind automatically analyzed the voice; unstrained, so not often in an environment that requires any shouting, posh accent, probably educated at a private school, from a family with quite a lot of money. Why would this man be working as a cabbie? He looked at the man's fingers; nails manicured, filed in even ovals. Not normally a cabbie… John's senses were on high alert as he answered even-voiced.

"Yes, I am."

The cabbie turned around and held out a well-kept hand for John to shake. He took it slowly. "I'm Athelney Jones. I've heard quite a bit about you lately. Sorry about your friend. He was a good man."

This surprised John. "Did you know him?"

"Not well, used to work for his brother, though. Saw him every once in a while. It was a fun time for everyone there to see them get into a row, deducing the hell out of each other—sometimes us, too."

John smiled a little. "I've seen that once or twice… Always an interesting event."

Athelney laughed. "That it was. Terrible shame he's gone. The world doesn't know how lost they are without him.

"So, where you headed," he asked, sensing John's tension at the mention of Sherlock's death.

"Scotland Yard."

Athelney nodded and handed him a slip of paper. "Would you put this in the sign by the entrance?"

John frowned a bit as he took the paper but didn't question the odd request; after the graveyard-cabbie incident, he didn't even bother opening the folded paper. He did, however, take a picture on his phone when Athelney was chatting about a deduction competition between Sherlock and Mycroft that had ended in the revealing of an affair between two of Mycroft's employees and their eventual resignation.

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><p>So... I has earned reviews? Pwease? I love you forever and bake you virtual cookies for the rest of our fanfic-y journey together?<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this up! Will you guys ever forgive me? :( Well, I hope you'll forgive me enough to at least review this chapter (yes, I am shamelessly begging for reviews! :D)

Oh, and disclaimer: I don't own

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><p>John walked into the Yard—after placing the strangely formatted note in the place requested—and nearly ran headfirst into a very distressed Greg Lestrade.<p>

Greg shook his head. "You'll want to see this. Sherlock would've loved it." John winced. "Sorry. I miss him too." John nodded tersely.

"So, what exactly happened?"

"Woman, mid-thirties, discovered in her apartment, no signs of forced entry, and, well… See for yourself." Without another word, Greg opened the door to his office and let John take in the strange sight of the photographs plastering the walls. "_Thou shan't bite thine thumb at me, madam"_ read the eerily red print. John almost wanted to laugh, in light of how inappropriate that would be. _Someone definitely likes their Shakespeare… _He cleared his throat and glanced at Greg.

"You've investigated any boyfriends?" Greg nodded. "Family?" Greg nodded again. "Anyone she might have upset?"

"See, there's the thing, she never seemed to upset anyone. One day, she was happy and cheerful, the next…" He shrugged helplessly.

John nodded. "Can you take me to the—" Greg's mobile began ringing. He held up a finger as he answered.

"Not again… DI Lestrade?" a momentary pause. "Oh, God… where's this one?" pause. "All right. I'll bring my best men.

"You won't have to visit the old crime scene. We've got a new one."

A new—? _Christ,_ Lestrade! How do you think I'll be able to help. I'm about as observant as you!"

Greg shrugged again. "Maybe you'll see something at the crime scene."

John gave a dry chuckle. "That'd be a miracle."

Greg gave him the address, and John left the Yard to track down a cab. What he didn't notice was the missing note.

Sherlock watched John carefully place the note where Athelney had told him to. Once John was in the Yard, he sauntered over to the note and deciphered the triple cipher with ridiculous ease.

_Sherlock, you should know already that Moran and Moriarty know that you are after them. Moran is, I am certain, watching you as you read this note. I am also certain that you know John has been asked to advise on a particularly strange case. I cannot update you very much more on this topic, although I am sure you would prefer it if I could. I have stopped following John as much on the cctv, it simply is not as much of a requirement anymore. He is not being followed by either of your targets, I assure you. You need not worry about him as much as you do—remember what I said about caring. Worrying about John will not help you keep him safe, Sherlock. It will only cause you to make mistakes. Hoping you are well, Your brother, through Athelney Jones._

Sherlock once again had to laugh at his brother's ridiculous theories. _Caring? _About a _person?_ How utterly mad! Sherlock knew the dangers of caring; he wasn't about to fall prey to them.

He was, however, intrigued by the fact that John was working a case without him. He hadn't thought that John had learned any of his methods, but, then again, John was far from ordinary. He would have to keep better tabs on John's doings, not because he cared, but for interest in the case.

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><p>Yeah, I know it's short... I'm just not sure where to go with plot as far as the case... But I felt bad for not getting anything up, so yes, this is very much a filler. I hope that you liked it anyways!<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Hi, there guys... Well... I'm not dead... And I really don't have much of an explanation, except for 2 tech weeks very close to each other, a painful AP exam (College level course in high school. Chemistry, to be exact. Never take it unless you want to major or minor in chemistry. Scariest class I've ever taken, and I still don't know how I did on the test)... I'm so incredibly sorry to all of you. I don't think I can ever make it up to you, although this is a rather long chapter compared to others I've posted.

Also, I've been working on an alternate, more detailed, ending to A Ganger's Assistance, which should be up soonish, I hope.

Another note, I was too lazy to grid this one, so I've got the cipher caesar shifted 7 to the right, and in a vigenere square with the code word Sherlock.

Ok, Disclaimer time: I do not own. Sorry, all

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><p>Sitting in the cab on the way to the crime scene, John stared unseeing at the picture on his mobile.<p>

Rvppdjlb, xcf qzjdcc yymo vuidoow lcjk Lccyf vwu Lccgsmcp jbzu lcjk xcf yjz jwssc rzzv. Dnfll an, R rl qpplvre, voeazdwx xcf yk txl qslb lcrj mcec. A vv rkgz awmcrhb efso hft yymo Exym vlq tzne zgvcv ox rcjtqw jw r oocraxdczfww koarmup asnn. Z boylgo dgcoec qjd mdfj kmxq dnfp mf oqzr hznax, jcsvzsyc R rl gfpw txl vcfjv kavesc gl do Z bcfjv. D qrus drgkyvc tzjdjfzmu Umzi jj linf gi cyd qnrn, dc jhaajq db enh lq eply nt l pwldzqsxcfo jexazpw. Cn zr bzr tzref tzjdjfvc pj caoqvq cq wgpa kzfrcln, R rrgfpw txl. Xcf lwzm enh hmjmh racfr zdv rr afaz vb pni om—jzvvlppp ocjk H glgv vkfth nyjdwx. Vccpqdwx zpzsl Exym ktjd ixk gswn qjd bdsa fah bres, Dfwmufby. Tr oduc nbww uvdjd mzs lj vrjs xgkojbdg. Smhdwx xcf yjz fvkz, Jmmm kinhscj, oqinirf Soqvkbpw Bjwvr.

The letters started blending together and John could feel a headache invading his temples. He locked his phone and sighed; he couldn't for the life of him figure out any rhyme or reason for the letters being in the order they were in. Knowing Sherlock, even the short time he did, he had learned to recognize ciphers. The jumble of letters was obviously a cipher, but John was beginning to think it might be multiple ciphers. He opened the notepad on his mobile and made a list of all the ciphers he knew. Sherlock was always quizzing him on ciphers, making him decipher and cipher and write notes in random ciphers that he was never told the names of... John figured he was a sort of an expert. The list went as followed:  
>Caesar<br>Pigpen  
>Grid<br>... Ok, so maybe his knowledge of ciphers was a little lacking. But there had to be enough ciphers on this list to get started. He knew it couldn't be pigpen; those were all symbols, and this was all letters. While he was pondering this, the cabbie coughed, letting John know that they had, in fact arrived at their destination. John shoved the money into the cabbie's expectant hands and jerked himself out of the cab, making sure to grab his cane as he went. With the strange rides he'd been getting of late, he expected the cabbie to recognize him and appreciate Sherlock. However, even if the man driving had recognized John, he was so absorbed in attempting to figure out the cipher that he wouldn't have even heard the man talk to him. John set his cane on the ground in time with his steps; it was as if he had never stopped using it. He wandered up to the crime scene. John felt lost: he wasn't supposed to be here without... Without him. It wasn't right. Nevertheless, Greg greeted him warmly and led him to the body-if it could be called that. It seemed to have been ripped to shreds, torn and mangled limbs lay everywhere and the only piece intact was the head. Even that had been shaved bald and gouged eyeless. The hair obviously from the head was piled next to it. Another sinister inscription was written above the pieces:  
>"I'll spurn thine eyes like balls before me! I'll unhair thy head! Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, smarting in lingering pickle!"<p>

John winced at the sight. Only his medical training prevented him from throwing up. Then, it was time to go into action.

"Doctor Watson, it's good to see you. We've literally looked every—"

"Thank you, Sally, but I'm still not quite in a speaking with you mood."

Sally blinked a few times. There had only really been one person who dismissed her that easily. Then again… They were flatmates… Sally felt a sudden rush of shame when she realized what John must think of her now. He had to know what she and Moira had done to get the freak—_Sherlock,_ she mentally corrected—arrested. She shook her head; whatever had happened, she didn't regret going to the boss.

John kneeled besides the dismembered corpse, pulling on the gloves Greg handed to him. He glanced at the head for a moment before looking up at Greg.

"Any ID on the body?"

"Anything that was on the body was removed before we arrived. All we know is female, and that she had brown hair—"

"Blonde," John corrected automatically.

"I-I'm sorry? The hair that was left by the body was clearly brown, not blonde."

"She dyed her hair. The skull wasn't completely shaved, probably a rushed job. There is a fine layer of hair still on some of her scalp, and it is most definitely blonde," John explained, barely looking at Greg. If he had been looking at Greg, he would have seen the older man's mouth hanging slightly ajar. The detached tone, the gleam in his eyes… They all reminded him of a certain consulting detective… Greg walked over to John and clamped a hand on his shoulder.

"John, you sound like him." John looked at him quizzically. "You just deduced a corpse," Greg clarified. John was shocked. He thought back to what he said earlier and realized just how like _him _he had sounded. His eyes lit up with confusion.

"I don't understand how. I was never able to do what he did, not even when he tested me. He always said I missed everything crucial."

"Maybe you did, John. But some of him must have rubbed off on you. Is there anything else that you can tell?"

John sighed and looked back to the corpse, urging her to give up the secrets to her death.

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><p>AN: So, I hope you liked it. It probably wasn't worth how long I made you wait, but thank Aokiflores for chastising me about my updating habits. I'll try to be better now that summer's finally come around. As always, it would make me unbelievably happy if you reviewed!


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